The straight razor and the unexpected edge

The barbershop smelled of bay rum and hot steel, the kind of place where men came to sharpen their edges both facial and existential. I preferred Cristhian’s hands, the way his fingers lingered near my temples, how he’d smirk when I joked about the other things I’d let him trim. But tonight, his chair was empty. The clock ticked past 8 PM, and the only light came from the back, where a new silhouette leaned against the sink.

“Led,” he said, wiping clippers on his thigh. No introduction, no niceties. Just a name that sounded like a challenge.

He was broad in a way that made the room shrink shoulders that could’ve carried bricks, a beard dense enough to hide secrets. The kind of man who didn’t just exist in spaces but conquered them. Hetero, undoubtedly. The way he palmed my head to tilt it forward, all business, confirmed it.

“Just clean it up,” I said.

His thumbs pressed into my scalp. “You’re tense.”

“Long week.”

“Mm.” The buzz of the clippers drowned my next breath. He worked in silence, but his reflection watched me in the mirror—not the way Cristhian did, with playful hunger, but like he was dissecting a blueprint.

When he brushed stray hairs from my neck, his knuckles grazed my skin. A spark. A pause. Then, casual as a shrug: “Need a ride?”

The bar was an afterthought. Two whiskeys in, Led admitted he’d never been to this part of the city. “Too many fucking hipsters,” he grunted.

“And yet you work at a barbershop that plays jazz.”

He smirked. “Touché.”

The third drink tipped the scales. His knee bumped mine under the table. “Your place or mine?” I asked, because someone had to say it.

His apartment smelled like leather and salt. No art, just a weight rack and a fridge with one beer left. He cracked it, drank half, then handed it to me. “You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“Neither are you.”

Then his hand was in my hair again, but this time, it fisted. His mouth crashed into mine, all heat and bourbon. I reached for his belt, and he let me grunting when I freed his cock, thick and ruddy in the dim light. “Fuck,” he muttered, as I swallowed him whole.

He tasted like sweat and poor decisions. I loved it.

When he flipped me onto the couch, his jeans still around his thighs, I arched back instinctively. “This what you wanted?” he growled, spitting into his palm before slicking himself.

I moaned into the cushion. “Since you touched my neck.”

His laugh was dark. “Knew you were trouble.”

The first thrust knocked the air from my lungs. He fucked like he built things—methodical, relentless, leaving no inch unexplored. I came untouched, my back bowed like a bridge under his weight. Afterward, he collapsed beside me, one arm slung over his face.

“Still think I’m straight?” he mumbled.

I licked my lips. “I think labels are boring.”

He huffed a laugh. “Next time, I’m charging you for the haircut.